


Ubi Bene, Ibi Patria; Pax Matrum, Ergo Pax Familiarum

by herewestandinfireandblood (fairytale_bliss)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Jorah lives AU, S8 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 15:43:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19704454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairytale_bliss/pseuds/herewestandinfireandblood
Summary: [Showverse] Two gifts, years apart.





	Ubi Bene, Ibi Patria; Pax Matrum, Ergo Pax Familiarum

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Pointless fluff.
> 
> This isn't the S8 fic I was writing before—that's still very much in progress (currently almost fifteen thousand words; estimating it's gonna end up at at least thirty-five).
> 
> I did initially start writing a "how Dany and Jorah end up where they are" scene, but I felt that that detracted from the story so I took it out. Maybe I'll recycle it in the future.
> 
> I have read all comments on the last GoT fic I posted, but I don't like skewering my comment count, which is why I haven't responded. I do have a Tumblr and an FFN profile, so if I recognise your username I'll be sure to message you. And if not, please know that I appreciate all comments from everyone. <3
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Game of Thrones.

_Ubi Bene, Ibi Patria; Pax Matrum, Ergo Pax Familiarum_

This strange new world is crowded and loud, but Daenerys still feels alone.

Her brother, as usual, has little time for her beyond scathing comments. Conversation goes on around her every day in a language she cannot understand. The Dothraki give her strange, untrusting looks, for her silver-blonde hair, pale skin, and violet eyes set her completely apart.

Her nights are no better, and she spends the early hours with her head pressed into her sleeping silks, teeth gritted, silent tears scalding her cheeks, awful pain searing through her as Khal Drogo does as he pleases.

Thankfully, it never lasts long.

When he’s sleeping, she creeps from his side and takes out one of her dragon eggs, settles its weight in her lap. She has no idea why they bring her so much comfort. The Targaryen sigil is a three-headed dragon, but the dragons have been gone for centuries.

Her one other comfort is the books that Ser Jorah Mormont handed to her on her wedding day.

Once the egg is settled securely on her lap, she reaches for the books and thumbs through the pages, reading about the homeland she’s never known with a hunger and longing unrivalled by anything else. She reads about the frigid north, the hot sands of Dorne, the heroic battles, the famous songs. They follow her into her dreams.

It takes almost two weeks for her to broach any subject with Ser Jorah. Out of everyone in this strange new life he is the least threatening, with his gentle way of speaking and his unassuming manner, and it is a relief to have someone other than her brother who can speak the Common Tongue, but she is still unmoored in this unfamiliar world and she doesn’t know how to change that. As understanding as Ser Jorah tries to be he can never understand, not really, because he hasn’t been sold into this life.

So, for those first few weeks she finds herself mostly riding by his side in silence, responding only when she has to to the gentle stream of chatter she knows he keeps up for her benefit.

But, eventually, things start to improve. Doreah shows her how to please the Khal, and things become easier there. Irri and Jhiqui patiently teach her Dothraki.

When Viserys threatens her in the great green grass and then orders Ser Jorah to kill Rakharo and the others, he refuses.

“Shall we return to the Khalasar, Khaleesi?” he asks her, and she rides by his side, her thigh brushing his, lost in thought.

He had pledged his sword to Viserys, but he’s defied him now.

He’s still here with her.

“Ser Jorah, may I ask you something?” she says as they continue on with their journey.

“You can ask me anything,” is his prompt response, kind as always.

She takes a deep breath, winds the reigns tighter in her hands until they cut into her palms. “I’ve been reading the books you gave me every night, and I was wondering if you might be able to tell me more about Westeros. Books can only give a taste of so much.”

“I can try,” he says. “I should warn you that I don’t have much experience of the Seven Kingdoms as a whole.”

“Any information is welcome, ser.”

“I’ve not seen much further south than the Riverlands,” he admits after a period of quiet riding. “Northerners don’t often travel south, and Bear Island is fairly isolated, even for the north.”

“Then tell me about the north,” she says. “I’ve read about it, but I should like to hear it from a true northerner’s eyes.”

He inclines his head towards her. “Yes, Khaleesi.”

“Will you tell me about Bear Island? There isn’t much information in the books you gave me.”

He looks surprised that she should have been so interested in the island where he came from, but that surprise soon melts into a warm, affectionate smile that puts her at ease. “That’s because Bear Island is a small place, and not nearly as exciting as Winterfell or the Wall.”

“It sounds exciting enough to me. Are there real bears there?”

“Aye,” he says, sounding wistful. “The bear is the sigil of our house, and there are many that roam about the islands. They’re a good source of meat for the long winters.”

Daenerys wrinkles her nose. Eating horse is bad enough. She can’t imagine eating bear. Ser Jorah must notice the revulsion on her face, but he only laughs.

“Fish is our main source of food,” he tells her. “The men are raised to fish, and each woman of Bear Island is raised to defend our land should the Iron Born come pillaging, which they frequently like to do.”

“The _women_?” says Dany incredulously. It’s hard to imagine. The women of the Dothraki are treated as little more than slaves; even the ones with places of honour are seen as property. Viserys has never seen her as anything more than a commodity, either. She tries to imagine what being valued might be like and finds she can’t. She’s only ever known Viserys’ cruelty, his sneering voice reminding her how stupid and worthless she is beyond what her body can give men.

“With sword and lance and axe, the same as any man,” Ser Jorah clarifies. His smile turns wistful. “There’s a carving on the gate to Mormont Keep of a woman with a babe suckling at a breast whilst she wields an axe. It’s quite a sight to behold.”

It certainly sounds it. Dany is envious of this strange place, where women are treated as equals to their men, are given the same opportunities to flourish.

“I would like to visit it someday,” she says.

Ser Jorah’s smile deepens to a shade of sympathy. “I’m not sure you’d like it, Khaleesi.”

“Why not?” she challenges, instantly chagrined.

“Bear Island’s clime is hostile, and I don’t believe dragons would like the cold.”

She softens. She’s spent her whole life being told by Viserys that he is the last dragon. That Ser Jorah sees her as a dragon too…

“Dragons like to fly,” she says. “They like to see the world.”

“One day you will.” His quiet confidence makes her heart swell. He’s not said the words, but after that exchange in the Dothraki grass, she has a feeling that he isn’t inferring it will happen when her brother takes the Iron Throne. More and more over the last few weeks she’s been wondering if that will ever happen. The Dothraki do not respect him, and he has no regard for them in turn. How can he hope to take their home back if he does not have their respect and love?

She can’t broach the topic with him. If she does, she’ll only wake the dragon.

“Tell me more,” she begs of Ser Jorah, eager to forget her morose thoughts.

“Well…” Ser Jorah is silent a moment, mulling over his words. “It’s a very green place. There are lots of trees and streams. It’s sparse, but one of the most beautifully natural places you’ll ever see. On clear days, if you stand on the clifftops, you can see for miles across the sea. In winter, the cold lives within you. Some days you don’t think you’ll ever know what it’s like to be warm again. Not even fires in the halls can keep the frost at bay. Even the summer snows are brutal.”

“I’ve never seen snow,” Daenerys comments. She’s lived her whole life in the scorching heat of Essos; she can scarcely believe that it can even exist.

“It’s not uncommon for the folk in Westeros not to have seen it, either,” says Ser Jorah. “It only ever snows in the north.”

“You miss it,” she notes.

“I do. To most people, the north is a savage place, filled with savage people. We have the blood of the First Men in our veins, and we worship the Old Gods.”

Daenerys has read about those. Strange, silent gods, who are tied to the magic of the weirwood trees, with their strange faces bleeding tears of scarlet. The Targaryens keep faith in the Light of the Seven now, but if she’s honest with herself, she’s not sure she believes in any of it. “But it’s not a savage place to you.”

“No. To me it’s the most beautiful place on earth. There’s nothing as breath-taking as the lakes of Bear Island when they’ve completely frozen over. The children go skating there, and the adults drink steaming cups of wine whilst the children play. The trees look like something from another world when they’re holding the snow on their limbs. On the rare days when the sun is out, it hurts to look at because it’s so pure. The horses struggle in the snow so we rely on our own two legs most of the time. I can’t pretend we are a wealthy island, or a big one, but we take great pride in its wildness, and Bear Islanders are strong folk.”

That isn’t hard to believe. She’s seen Ser Jorah’s frame underneath his riding clothes, all wiry muscles and broad-shouldered and lean, strong elegance. She’s felt those arms around her, how he lifted her from her horse as if she was nothing but a feather. He doesn’t have the raw power of Khal Drogo, but he’s not to be underestimated. Certainly he would overpower Viserys in a heartbeat. Her brother carries a sword at his side like a statement, but she’s never seen him wield it, and even though she would never say it to him, she’s always privately thought that Viserys is weak and weedy, no true warrior at all.

“Do you know anything of Kings Landing, or Dragonstone?” she asks as they continue to canter along.

“No, Khaleesi. I’ve never seen either of them. I could only tell you what you have likely already learned from your brother and your books.”

“I don’t much trust my brother’s tales,” she confesses. “He was only a child himself when we fled Westeros, and I suspect he made them sound grander than they really were.”

“As is the way of children,” Ser Jorah muses. “Your brother has his faults, but I cannot blame him for that. Those must have been traumatic times for him. It’s natural that he should cling to an image of his home, no matter how warped it might be. I think we’re all guilty of that.”

Yes, Dany supposes they are. Ser Jorah clearly yearns for Bear Island. She still dreams about the red door and the lemon tree. Her brother, however young, knew the halls of the Red Keep, saw the majestic dragon skulls lining the impressive throne room. If _she’d_ ever seen that, she’s sure it would have stayed with her, too.

“I was born on Dragonstone,” she says now, patting her silver on the neck to avoid looking in Ser Jorah’s direction. “I hope to visit it one day. To see where I came from, as it were.”

“When you return to Westeros, you will go where you please,” says Ser Jorah. “The whole of the Seven Kingdoms will be your Dothraki Sea. If you wanted to travel from the south of the Arbor right up to the Wall, you could. There would be no one to stop you.”

“Viserys would stop me,” she says miserably. “He wouldn’t want to let me do anything that made me happy.”

“Your brother is no longer your keeper,” says Ser Jorah. “He may be the King of the Seven Kingdoms, but you are a Khaleesi now, with a forty thousand strong Khalasar at your back.”

“The Khalasar is Drogo’s,” she points out.

“A force he will never give up to your brother. When the war is won, do you think Khal Drogo will be content sitting in King’s Landing?”

No, she knows he wouldn’t be. The Dothraki never linger in one place for long, and the capital would stifle him.

“He will probably come back home,” she sighs. “Which means I would go with him if Viserys does not challenge him. I won’t get to stay.”

“And why not?” says Ser Jorah. “You are Drogo’s khaleesi.”

“So?”

“I was under the impression that things between you were better,” he says neutrally, not looking at her. Dany feels herself flushing, and busies herself with urging her silver faster. Ser Jorah, however, keeps pace with her with ease upon his stallion.

“That’s beside the point,” she says shortly, for she does not wish to discuss that aspect of her life with the knight.

“Is it?” Ser Jorah ponders. “I don’t think so. Khal Drogo could have wed any Dothraki woman he wanted. He is the fiercest fighter, the most feared Khal in the world. And he chose you.”

The words echo Doreah’s.

“If you wanted to stay in Westeros and see the lands, he would do that for you, I’m sure,” he continues.

“And what of you?” she asks. “You’ll return to Bear Island?”

His mouth twists. “Truly, I don’t know, Khaleesi. I fled the north in disgrace. As long as Eddard Stark is alive, I won’t be able to set foot back there. As for my father…”

“Surely he’d be pleased to see you,” she presses. “You’re his son. His flesh and blood.”

He snorts, a bitter sound. “And what difference does that usually make? I betrayed him. We’re a proud house. We do not forgive easily, and I fear that I will never be redeemed in his eyes, son or no.”

She thinks of Viserys, of his cruelty. The point hurts, but she can’t deny its truth. He sold her like a brood mare, and would have done a thousand other things if it brought him closer to his goal. She’s nothing to him but a commodity, a means to an end.

“Perhaps you can travel with us,” she offers, eager to leave such dismal truths behind. “You fit in with the Dothraki. It might not be the North, but it could be enough.”

He turns to look at her, quietly analysing with those piercing blue eyes, eyes that make her feel as if he can see right through her very soul, someone who already understands her better than anyone else ever has done before. It’s disconcerting.

“Yes,” he rasps, “it could be enough.”

The atmosphere around them has thickened. She swallows hard, tearing her gaze away, eager to tilt the conversation back on to steadier terrain. “Can you sing, ser?”

The question clearly throws him. “ _Sing_ , Khaleesi?”

“Yes,” she says, then supplies, “I was reading the songs in the books you gave me, but reading them isn’t the same, is it? I can’t get a feel for how they’re supposed to sound. They’re just words on the page. They’re not _alive_.”

“They wouldn’t be any more alive if I sang them,” he says. “I can’t sing, Khaleesi.”

“But you know them,” she persists.

He sighs. “I know a few, aye.”

“ _Please_ sing for me, Ser Jorah. Even if I can’t have anything else of Westeros, I can have that.”

Ser Jorah heaves a long-suffering sigh, but he softens nevertheless; whether it’s pity or the knightly urge to do a kindness, she doesn’t know, but it seems he can’t resist her request. “Very well. As long as you promise not to laugh at me.”

“I promise,” she swears solemnly.

“Then what would you like me to sing?”

There are hundreds of songs in the books that he gave her. She could choose any of them. There’s the one about the bear and the maiden, but Viserys had sneered that Ser Jorah must be starving for a woman’s honey, being surrounded by nothing but Dothraki bitches, so she feels it must be offensive to him in some way, and she has no wish to insult the one person who has been unfailingly kind to her. She plucks another one instead.

“The one about the girl called Jenny?”

“ _Jenny of Oldstones_ ,” he confirms to her with a resigned smile. “Very well.”

And he digs his heels into his horse’s flanks, making it trot faster. She spurs her silver on too, keeping close to his side as he takes a deep breath and issues the first line:

“ _High in the hall of the kings who are gone…”_

He’s wrong, Daenerys thinks as she listens to his hoarse, dulcet tones. Ser Jorah has a lovely voice; listening to the gravelly, lilting tones, filled with bitter longing, makes the hairs on her body rise. The Dothraki give them strange looks as they canter by together, the knight indulging this strange whim of their strange new khaleesi.

For the first time, she doesn’t care.

For this moment, she is free. Free to fly to Westeros on the wings of Jorah’s stories and the pictures he paints with the tune of this haunting melody.

That night, she dreams of trotting through the plains of Westeros on her silver, Drogo galloping ahead with his blood riders, Jorah ever faithful by her side as he sings Westerosi tunes, her brother nowhere in sight. When she wakes in the morning, it’s an image she tucks deep down inside herself.

With his compassions, Ser Jorah has given her more than hope.

He’s given her a taste of home.

* * *

One minute the humid air is filled with pained groans, incoherent pleas to the gods that it be over soon. The next, it comes to life with the sweet, shrill cries of a baby.

“A little girl!” says Missandei, delighted, and Daenerys finds the strength to lift her head from her pillows to peer at her. Missandei holds a swathed bundle, and from its depths comes a tiny, _tiny_ hand, flailing for a moment as if the child within is greeting her. Fresh tears burn behind her eyes.

She has a daughter. It’s a sentence that she had never expected to hold any truth. Mirri Maz Durr had told her that she would never carry children, but here she is.

The sun had risen in the west and set in the east.

Now that it’s over, she’s filled with an exhausted kind of energy, a mother’s restless desire to be close to her flesh and blood.

“How is she?” she asks Missandei, plaintive and fragile, a child all over again.

“She’s fine,” Missandei reassures her. “Perfectly healthy. Listen to her!”

Her lungs certainly sound healthy enough, and Daenerys forces herself to take a deep breath. She wants nothing more than to reach out and take her baby into her arms, to truly ensure that this isn’t some dream she’s going to wake up from at any moment, but even if she’d demanded it, she doubts her handmaidens would have listened. They’re moving about the room with a gritty determination, stripping the blood soaked sheets from under her, forcing her into a clean gown. She barely gives them a second thought, her gaze fixated on Missandei and that little wriggling bundle.

At last her wait is at an end. Missandei turns towards her, a tentative smile on her face. “Would you like to hold her?”

It’s a question that doesn’t even need to be asked. Dany opens her arms and Missandei crosses the room to her side, gently lowering the now-clean babe into her arms.

The tears that have been threatening since the first moment she heard those piercing cries finally spill. The tiny, warm weight in her arms is more precious than anything she’s ever known. The fine soft down on the top of her head is silver-gold, the regal traits of the Targaryen bloodline. The eyes are pale blue, and she wonders if they will deepen to amethyst over the coming months.

There is nothing delicately Valyrian about her daughter’s face. No, even so young, Daenerys can see the sharp, distinctive lines of her northern husband.

As if on cue, there’s a scuffling outside the door, then a short, uncertain knock. Missandei stops folding the soiled sheets and hurries over to the door, cracking it open just a touch.

“What is it?” she asks in Valyrian, and Dany hears Grey Worm’s muffled response:

“Is it over?”

“It’s over when we say it’s over,” says Missandei.

“I fear that I can't restrain Jorah the Andal for much longer. He is anxious.”

“Let him in,” Dany calls from her position on the bed. She is no longer a queen, but she’s spent years leading people, and sometimes it’s difficult not to slip back into that old role, especially when there’s something that she wants.

Jorah is usually more than happy to accommodate her, no matter her whim.

Missandei glances at her, a frown creasing her brows. “But we’re not finished, the blood—”

“Jorah’s seen plenty of blood in his time,” she says. And he’s a northerner—they don’t seem to have the patience for southern delicacies. Brooding and no-nonsense, that’s what she’s learned about them in her time.

Her friend looks like she’d quite like to argue, but evidently doesn’t quite dare. So she sighs and gives Grey Worm the nod, and Daenerys hears his footsteps receding. Seconds later there’s another set, much more hurried. The door almost bounces on its hinges.

Jorah stands in the doorway, chest heaving slightly, his thinning hair standing up at all angles. His eyes lock onto hers at once, and she offers him a tired smile.

“Ser,” she says.

“Khaleesi,” he returns, glancing at the others in the room, as if he’s only just realised that they’re not alone, suddenly shy to be in a room full of women. He clears his throat. “How…how are you feeling?”

“Sore,” she quips. “I don’t want to hear a man complain about the battlefield again after what we’re put through in the birthing chamber.”

He chuckles, folding his hands deferentially in front of him. He won’t make the first move. Right now this is her domain, and she is a queen once more; he is hers to command.

There’s only one command she wants to give him.

“Come here,” she says. “Come take a look for yourself.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Missandei and the other handmaidens melting away, leaving them to share this moment alone. As it should be.

Jorah’s eyes are transfixed on the bundle.

He’s stopped a few inches from the bed, as if he daren’t come any closer. She shifts, clenching her teeth against the dull ache in her lower half as she makes room for him. The gap is another unspoken demand, and his hands go to the sword belt slung low on his hip. Even here, he carries it wherever he goes, his own Valyrian steel blade forged from Drogon’s flame— _Gryves' Zaldrīzes_ , she christened it. He’d stumbled over the pronunciation the first few times, and it had been a privilege to teach him, sitting close, voices low, letting his husky tone wash over her.

She had three dragons, and her bear had deserved a dragon of his own. It had been fitting that the sword she had promised him should personify his dedication to her.

He too has three now.

Jorah rears his greatsword up against the side of the bed and slowly seats himself on the very edge. She shifts the bundle in her arms so that he can get a better look.

“Say hello to your daughter,” she whispers.

The look on Jorah’s face takes her breath away. She’s seen the look of worship a thousand times before—when he found her unburnt in Drogo’s pyre, three baby dragons clinging to her body, when she ascended the stairs to the Red Keep, later, when he held her in his arms in the aftermath of their first time together, still unable to comprehend that she had made a choice and she had chosen him.

She’s never seen it directed at anyone else before. If it was anyone else, she would have felt a jealousy that burned hotter than any dragonfire. But it’s for their daughter, the living, breathing extension of herself—the living, breathing extension of _him_ —and she knows that he will do absolutely anything to keep them both safe. Bears are just as protective as dragons.

“Hello,” he whispers. He reaches out to pull the blanket away with an index finger. He’s trembling.

In all the years she’s known him, she’s never seen him as less than composed and brave. Even in the hours before facing death itself there had been a calm steadiness that had radiated from him, kept her centred too.

Faced with his flesh and blood, he’s vulnerable. Open. Soft.

She’s never loved him more.

“Come closer,” she murmurs.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

She crooks an eyebrow at him. “You think me that weak?”

He chuckles. “I’ve never known anyone as strong.”

“Then prove it.”

“Will there ever be a day that you don’t test me?”

“I’m your lady wife now,” she retorts, the corner of her mouth curling. “Even a queen doesn’t deserve a man’s devotion as much as his wife does.”

“And you are both to me,” says Jorah, moving to wrap a tentative arm around her. “I was never going to stand a chance, was I?”

Dany leans in to his embrace, resting her cheek against his shoulder. She knows every inch of him intimately, knows how to slot against him like the missing piece of a puzzle. “No, you did not.” Jorah is not like most other men she has known. He was raised to respect the strength of women, as the she-bears from his island proved they were as strong and formidable as any man, and he has seen time and time again what she can do, never once wavering in his devotion.

Their daughter is blessed to have him as a father. She will never be seen as less than worthy as his heir just because of her sex, and he will help raise her to be fierce and strong, like a bear, like a dragon.

She had been blind to it at first, but now she knows that there isn’t a better man in Westeros than her husband. She tilts her head now, studying the Valyrian steel angle of his jaw, the sharp bob of his throat as he swallows hard, staring down at the babe in her arms.

“She’s perfect,” he whispers. The hand not wrapped around her waist moves to the blankets. His index finger slips between the swathes and runs reverently down one perfect, soft cheek. “I can’t believe I had a hand in this.”

His tone is one of incredulous marvel, and she doubts he will ever truly get over the wonder. But he’s the only man living to have heard baby dragons sing, and this is yet another phenomenon they can share together. Rhaego had never lived and she had never even seen him, his tiny body disposed of before she had regained consciousness. All she had of him were her own imaginings, of the inhuman, scaled, warped body that Mirri Maz Durr had spoken of with such contemptuous glee.

Rhaego will never leave her entirely, but her daughter will be a salve on the wound, will finally let it scar over.

She has been the Breaker of Chains to so many for so many years, and now she is finally throwing off her own.

“She has the Targaryen look.” Jorah’s husky voice breaks through her ruminations and Daenerys brings herself back to the here-and-now, to the things that matter the most.

“She has the Targaryen _hair_ ,” Dany corrects him, her fingers joining his as he traces the silver-blonde finery with awe. “Look closer and you shall see the hand you had in this.”

Yes, the hand he’d had in building her up, making her strong. Not the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms after all, but still the woman he was dedicated to above all else, the woman he loved and respected and would do absolutely anything for. He’d come so close to proving that he was true to his vow, that he would die for her, had shown her over and over in the months since the Long Night that he above all other men was with her until the end. Not the Spider. Not her Hand.

Not her lover, Jon Snow.

It was Jorah who remained when the game of thrones was over, and she realised what had been in front of her the entire time.

She had made the final necessary move, and they had never looked back since. Love had taken root long ago, had grown so slowly that she had never thought that it could blossom. But Jorah’s tender work had made it flourish, bloom, pulse with beauty. Together, they had built a home.

And now they had made a kingdom. Made in the deepest of nights, in the soft moans and whispers of love and devotion, in the most reverent of touches, the greatest of pleasures, the oldest dance known to man. Dany looks at him looking at their daughter now, watches the pride bloom over his face as he registers the little nuances in features that are synonymous with Mormonts.

“Hold her,” she coaxes.

Jorah’s eyes meet hers again, misted over with things he cannot give voice to. She gives him a smile, encouraging.

“I’ve never held a baby before,” he tells her hoarsely.

“Neither have I until this moment,” she says. “Most would say my dragons didn’t count.”

That makes his own lips curl upwards, finally seems to convince him. Daenerys instructs him to make his arms into a cradle, which he does, and she gently places their child into the crook of his strong arm, unable to resist letting the baby curl her tiny _tiny_ hand around her index finger, not wanting to lose contact entirely. The babe emits only a few small gurgles at this sacred transfer, staring up at the new face in front of her with round, curious eyes. No doubt she’s going to be a bright little thing as she grows. Dany lets her mind wander into the future; she can see her now, shadowing her father’s every step, full of the Mormont stubbornness and the Targaryen righteousness, demanding to know everything about the world.

“When I first fled Westeros,” he murmurs now, “I thought my disgrace and shame would haunt me for the rest of my days. I thought that was how I would die, a sellsword who had dishonoured his family name and lost all right to redemption. I did things I bitterly regret.” Here he swallows, and though they have made the silent agreement to never speak of his betrayal again, she knows it weighs heavily on him still, despite her forgiveness, despite her love.

“And yet here you stand,” she whispers, echoing the family words that are hers as well as his now.

He turns towards her, his eyes shining with tears. Her heart jolts. Men crying at the birth of children? It’s not something she’s ever known before, but Jorah is Jorah, and she learned long ago not to compare him with other men.

“And yet here _we_ stand,” he whispers in return, and now her own tears well, because that one sentence encapsulates everything she’s ever wanted. “Thank you, Daenerys.”

“No,” she says. “Thank _you_ , Jorah.”

“I don’t know what for,” he argues lightly. “You’re the one who gave this old cynic new belief. You’re the one who gave me purpose. You’re the one who gave me love.”

She shakes her head, unable to put into the words the swell of emotion in her breast. Even now he doesn’t fully understand. She might have breathed life back into him, but he has reciprocated time and time again, given her things that she never even dreamed that she would get.

Maintaining eye contact with him, she wraps her hand around the nape of his neck and pulls him down towards her. He doesn’t resist. He never has. Her lips meet his with a gentleness and tenderness that speaks volumes of what she feels in her heart; his stubble scratches her chin with aching familiarity, and the tears she has been holding prisoner behind her eyes finally spill, a catharsis. Their daughter gurgles and wriggles, a warm, real reminder that something beautiful can come out of fire and blood.

Jorah will have the honour of naming her. He deserves that for all he has given to her over the years.

His service.

His loyalty.

His protection.

His love.

And now this. The thing she had been dreaming of when their paths had first crossed. It’s not the red door and the lemon tree in Braavos, but it’s close enough, and though it took her time, she learned that home was never a physical place but a belief, and home could be found in a person.

As long as he is by her side, everything will be fine.

He pulls away from her mouth, presses a kiss to her forehead.

“I love you, Daenerys Stormborn,” he whispers, his breath warm against her skin.

“I love you, Jorah,” she sighs in response. She’s never meant the words more.

Her most trusted advisor, her most valued general, her dearest friend.

Truly the love of her life.

Daenerys rests her cheek against his shoulder once they part, snuggling into his unassuming strength. Jorah squeezes her waist, holding her close to him, the smile on his face taking years off him. Peace settles over their little haven as their baby burbles softly to herself, taking in the mysteries of this strange new world, and Daenerys feels her heart swelling anew with more love than she thinks she can handle. She squeezes her husband back, giving her silent thanks to him and everything he’s done.

He’s given her more than home.

He’s given her a family.


End file.
